Bowls of Porridge
by MertleYuts
Summary: This one's too hot. This one's too cold. Vague ponderings, quick poems, shorts jaunts with strange style, and half-finished ideas. This one is just right.
1. Designs of Godmothering

Designs of Godmothering

The problem with carriages, Miss Patience Lovelace had decided, was that they were designed with more imagination than actual consideration for the occupants. Certainly the green flourishes set in the sides were perfectly lovely with the pale orange walls, but they seemed to be arranged in just the ideal pattern so as to always poke into one's elbows or knees depending on how one tried to sit. Not to mention the seats had been designed in such a way that Miss Patience was certain the builder of the carriage had never actually sat in a chair in his entire life! They were all sharp angles and sharper edges.

Reginald, her driver, had kindly assured her that the second day of travel was the worst, and afterwards you adjusted to the monotony and discomfort. After a week of travel down the Great Road, which was said to stretch like a serpents across the entire empire, Miss Patience very respectfully cared to disagree with her driver. Given, the second day had been dreadful, but the aches in her backside had been pin pricks compared to the agony every bump in the road now caused her tortured rear. She rearranged the blue seat cushions for the umpteenth time this afternoon and redoubled her efforts to find distraction in her book.

"_There are of course advantages and disadvantages to this more direct form of debate_." She read out loud in an attempt to drown out the clip-clop of the horses hooves as it was driving her crazy! "_Stating the thesis before the evidence allows the listener to form their own opinions on the subject before yours can be proven, depending on how_- Good lord!" she screamed. "The sleezing flea ridden son of a windbag who designed this rattling crate called a carriage should be hung by the toes over a moat until this time next decade!" she screamed, throwing the book at one wall and the pillow at the other.

Reginald chucked from above at the antics of the lady below. "Don't you dare laugh at me, Reginald, I am at my wit's end!" Miss Patience ordered through one of the regrettably small windows. "You are the only one around to see me act such a way or I should never dare throw such a tantrum. It is not at all befitting a lady, all the same it is not befitting a gentleman to laugh at me for it."

"I would ne'er laugh at you, Miss," Reginald assured her with only the slightest hint of sarcasm in his voice, "I was simply thinkin' that whate're bloke did design this carriage ought to be scared out 'o his wits, as I know you mean e'ery word o' that."

"You may be quite certain I do," Miss Patience, agreed, back to trying arrange her cushions, "I never say anything I do not fully intend to act upon if given the proper opportunity. The likelihood of such an opportunity ever arising, however, was taken into account."

Reginald was a thin, good humored man, who's hair seemed to be that flip-flopping age when it could not decide whether to stay brown or just drop the pretense along with it's color. He had taken to wearing wide rimmed hats in hopes of coaxing it towards the former. While Reginald was well adjusted to the monotony of long and painful trips, he felt for the lady in the carriage, and put forth an effort to smooth the gait of the pair of white horses pulling them. Judging by the groans and growls from inside his efforts were mostly in vain.

"When we have made it to court, I do not know who, but I shall be sure to let someone know exactly what I think of this ancient Great Road of theirs! The north has been laying rails for years now, and what do we have?" Miss Patience complained loudly below, "I'll tell you what I have, I have an aching backside and a foul disposition! And it's all because we can't seem to figure out how to do business with the iron and coal rich countries! Why if we would only-"

Reginald returned his attention to the white paved road and the lovely view of farm land in all directions. Miss Patience often worked herself into rants like this, he knew she was nervous, but he could not decide if she meant to blow off steam so that she would be calm and composed when she got to court- or to practice. Either way, it was often a very short period of time before he got lost in all the complexities and politics and stopped even trying to listen.

.o.o.o.

The sun was beginning to set and Miss Patience had managed, by some miracle, to fall asleep earlier and was quietly dozing in the uncomfortable seats. Reginald knew this, because the last hour or so, the only sounds of protest had been from the horses or the wheels.

The sun cast a last warm glow over everything, giving the hills a certain color and beauty only visible in half light. The grass glistened warm green as a rainbow of colors leaked down the sky. The Great Road wound away, a single white ribbon, beckoning travelers to follow until they reached the sinking sun. It was one of the many times Reginald let his mind wander aimlessly, and so it was not until he heard Miss Patience, suddenly woken from her slumber, say, "Who is that girl up ahead?" that he noticed the sad lonely little figure just a little farther up the road.

"Pull up beside her, will you?" Miss Patience asked in that way of hers that seemed to take all the option out of a request.

Reginald nodded, "We'll be on 'er in a minute." And indeed they were, as the carriage slowed down almost to a crawl, Miss Patience poked her head out the window. "You there, girl, why are you walking all alone here?"

The girl looked up and both Reginald and Miss Patience recognized very quickly two things about her. First, the girl was remarkably pretty. Not just pretty, she was beautiful with golden curls, gleaming in the last rays of sun, big doe eyes, and a lovely delicate figure, even in her old, but once fine, clothes. Second, they both realized that she had run away from home, as she had a determined look about her and a large suit bag that looked to be crammed with everything she owned.

"Oh, ah, I- I was just-," she flustered and flailed for a reason.

"What is your name?" Miss Patience asked, not unkindly.

"Miss Elanor Chimneyside," she bobbed a quick curtsy.

"And where are you going, Miss Chimneyside?"

"Well... I was... I was going to the capital- I suppose,"she trailed off and quickly her cheeks turned red as Miss Patience Looked her over from her seat in the carriage. Whenever Miss Patience Looked at someone it was an unabashed and hardly subtle judgment of their character and appearance, completely deserving of the capital lettered distinction. The person subjected to the Look could never be certain what conclusion Miss Patience had come to until she spoke.

"Well, get in if you would like a ride there," Miss Patience opened the door and quickly replaced the cushions she had stolen from the other side of he carriage. Miss Elanor stared in shock a moment then quickly clambered into the carriage as if in fear that this strange woman would change her mind.

Miss Elanor arranged her bag in the corner and tried to find a comfortable position on the seat given to her. "Oh, umm, I'm sorry, I think I've crumpled your paper," Miss Elanor realized as she heard the crinkle of paper as she shifted and pulled out the sheet from beneath the cushions.

"Oh no, not to worry, just my designs for a new more comfortable carriage," Miss Patience smiled and tucked the papers behind her own chair somewhere. "Right then, all set? Thank you Reginald, if you would continue on?"

Reginald who had been caught just as off guard as Miss Elanor, shook himself and flicked the horses forward. It was no use trying to understand Miss Patience Lovelace, one might very well die trying, and probably prematurely.

Inside, Miss Elanor was trying anyway. "Thank you very much, I can't say how much I appreciate this, Miss-"

"Miss Patience Lovelace," she introduced herself. "It was no problem at all," she assured Miss Elanor, "As you can see, I have room. If you don't mind my asking, what were you planning on doing once you got to the capital?"

"Oh I- well, I don't really know, but I couldn't stay in my home anymore," Miss Elanor admitted.

"Why?"

Miss Elanor hesitated only a moment, "Well, my step mother- when my father died, she started favoring her own two daughters and made me work as a servant in my own home! I was raised well, but manners don't teach you much about, well about trouble like that and I didn't know what to do, so I stayed for years. But, when- I'm sorry, I'm probably breaking all types of etiquettes burdening you with all of my problems after I just met you, I'm very sorry I-"

"Not to worry, it's a very interesting story," Miss Patience assured her. "A nice girl like you, I'm sure you could find some work in the capital. I don't have many connections at the moment, but I quite hope to and as soon as I do I shall recommend you, I like you already. For now though, of course, you must stay with me. Well, I am staying with my aunt, of course, but I am sure she would be delighted to have more guests, she loves having guests. Of course, we'll have to find you some more suitable clothes, not that yours aren't lovely, but it is very important to keep up with the fashions when you are in town, you never know who you might see on the street."

"I- yes- what?" Miss Elanor was trying very hard to keep up with Miss Patience's rapid way of speaking, but was having quite some trouble.

"Some dresses, you can wear some of mine until then, but you will have to get some tailored to you," it was obvious even to Miss Elanor by this point that Miss Patience's mind was working rapidly off somewhere else and that the best she could do for the moment was just agree and hope that everything worked out.

"That sounds wonderful," she nodded, or at least the things that she had caught did. She couldn't believe that someone could be so generous and welcoming to someone they just picked up off the road, but Miss Elanor just got this feeling that Miss Patience meant everything she said.

.o.o.o.

Miss Patience had been greatly cheered by the distraction that Miss Elanor Chimneyside presented, so much so that the last few hours to the inn had been almost comfortable despite the significantly lessened leg room. Miss Elanor had been quite a find, and not just because she was a pleasant traveling companion, though Miss Patience did rather wish that Miss Elanor would say something a little more intelligent from time to time, but then again, Miss Patience knew she could come across a bit strong. No, what really delighted Miss Patience, was her Plan.

Miss Patience was plain. It was a fact she did not like to admit to, but she did recognize it as a fact. She had straight brown hair and strong dark features that might have been called noble or exotic with a lot of imagination and some poor lighting. She was not ugly by any means, but she would never manage more than nice or passably pretty. This posed an obstacle to her aspirations of being a part of the court where, unless you were royal, only the smartest and handsomest men and women were accepted into society. Miss Elanor, however, with a little fixing up, she would be pulled right into court as soon as the men caught a glimpse of her. She had even been raised the daughter of a gentleman, so her manners would need only a little work! With Miss Elanor as a foot in the door, Miss Patience was certain she would meet the right people and form connections, all she needed was to catch some attention.

She smiled to herself as she pulled her sheets aside and crawled into bed. Good things came to everyone, but it only mattered if you took advantage of them when they reared their head. Miss Elanor was a very good thing.

**This was actually more along the lines of the sorts of things I had imagined going here. This was, at one point, supposed to be a beginning to a story, which then quickly died because it had no plot to speak of and nowhere to go. Unfinished, just like Goldilock's breakfasts. However, it sort of manages to stand alone, and I still like it enough to present it to other people. I quite hope that you agree, otherwise I just probably just seem really lazy right now! X)**


	2. I am the Cinder Girl

_**I**_ am the cinder girl,

fairest in the land.

Even you look pale

when I hold up my fair hand.

.o.o.

My eyes they gleam like crystal.

My hair is shines like gold.

And best you had believe

that my heart is just as cold.

.o.o.

They say the prince did love me,

and if beauty begets love,

then happily I'll tell you

that he loved me sure enough.

.o.o.

_**I **_am the cinder girl,

fairest ever known.

Fair by more than half enough

to get myself a throne.

.o.o.

My lips are red as fire.

My lashes black as sin.

And my rage burns hot

as those shoes you're dancing in.

.o.o.

They say happily ever after,

and it's all the end they give.

But if I hear that one more time

we'll see how long you live.

.o.o.

_**I **_am the cinder girl,

best keep it in mind,

that riches make you happy

like beauty makes you kind.

* * *

><p><strong><strong>GOSH it was ridiculous hard trying to divide those silly verses. Apparently fanfiction hates pretty arrangements. XP <strong>**

**Yes, this one is just a poem. It was that line, I am the cinder girl, that just popped into my head and it sounded so dark and lovely that I had to keep going with it. I love it when poems just sort of float into your head out of nowhere like that. Oh, and I can't remember which fairy tale actually had the red hot shoes. My instincts are telling me Snow White, but it fits in well enough with the theme anyway.**

**As for this collection as a whole, the name Bowls of Porridge has been floating in the back of my mind forever now, waiting to gather enough little ideas to finally put it into action. It's an odd collection of one shots and beginnings to stories that never were, and I am totally excited for it. Probably shouldn't have started with a poem since I don't really predict any more coming... whatever!  
><strong>


	3. Peaches

**Well I haven't posted anything in forever, so I present this little tidbit. It's been sitting in the dark depths of my hard drive for a while now, and by a while I mean since summer.**

Peaches

There was such a thing as a perfect fruit. She knew this because she knew exactly what it was.

There had been a peach tree when she was little, larger and older and wiser than any tree could hope to be. And she knew every branch of that tree, she'd climbed it so many times. Knew every leaf and every inch of bark. When she was little she would collect the tiny green bulbs because they were so fuzzy when they were small. She would carry them with her all day and stroke them in her pockets. Comfort and happy secrets were as fuzzy as peaches.

And she remembered days and days, those humid sweet, yellow summer days spent gathering peaches. So many peaches she was certain they could feed the world before they would run out. And mother knew eight million magical things to do with peaches, but she always said her favorite recipe was for love, because there were always enough bushels to bring to everyone they knew and especially those they didn't. Friendships could grow on love and peaches.

And she'd loved to read stories under that tree, because adventures and romance and magic had a heady smell that filled your chest to bursting that you couldn't help but smile, just like peaches.

And she'd had her first kiss under that tree. Simple and exciting and over much too soon. And he had tasted of peaches.

And she would sing to the peaches. Tried to learn the lazy hum of the bees and whistle of the birds. There was an orchestra of life in that tree, and they all sang to the peaches.

And when mother died she had climbed the tree and thought she might never come down, because there was nothing worth living for anymore. But the pink blossoms were still just blushing open, and the peaches wouldn't be back for another few months, so she might as well stay around until then. And the next season of course, and probably the one after that, because it would be such a shame to miss the peaches.

And step-mother never liked the peach tree. She didn't like her fruit fuzzy. She thought it bruised too easily. She didn't like the heavy sweet smell of overripe fruit. Or the noisy bees. She just didn't understand. To her, they were just a mottled colored fruit that wouldn't be ignored, even when you weren't eating it. Just a messy sort of fruit that was impossible to eat without getting sticky sweet everywhere. To step-mother, they were just peaches.

But she knew. She knew that the perfect fruits were peaches.

And as her breath halted and the room kept spinning and her head hit the floor and the world went black she only had one single regret. That the last thing she'd have eaten, was an apple.

**I would get fruit most Sundays from the farmers market during the summer. You know, in case you were wondering.**


	4. Something Beautiful

**Oddly enough I have been writing quite a bit of poetry recently. This one is a bit meh? But I like the thought behind it, so I decided to put it up. There might be more coming if I can figure out how to word them properly.**

Something Beautiful

I'm looking for something beautiful,

was all he said.

Was all he said.

So they showed him diamonds that glistened bright,

and pearls that shone all pearly white.

But he just shook his head.

.o.o.o.

I'm looking for something beautiful,

was all he said.

Was all he said.

So princesses came with hair of gold,

and maidens danced with smiles bold.

But still he shook his head.

.o.o.o.

I'm looking for something beautiful,

was all he said.

Was all he said.

So songs were played that gripped the soul,

and troubadours sang their epics whole.

But still he shook his head.

.o.o.o.

I'm looking for something beautiful,

was all he said.

Was all he said.

So the moon shone red in starry night,

and the sun drew rainbows in the dying light.

But still he shook his head.

.o.o.o.

I'm looking for something beautiful,

was all he said.

Was all he said.

So he traveled long to foreign land,

with palaces and mountains grand.

But still he shook his head.

.o.o.o.

I'm looking for something beautiful,

was all he said.

Was all he said.

So books were brought with knowledge great,

and wise men and crones with all they could relate.

But still he shook his head.

.o.o.o.

I'm looking for something beautiful,

was all he said.

Was all he said.

So he spoke with a man who had lost all his land,

and still helped his friend who had needed a hand.

But still he shook his head.

.o.o.o.

I'm looking for something beautiful,

was all he said.

Was all he said.

So he laughed with a child, all filled with joy,

and mother who held her sweet baby boy.

But still he shook his head.

.o.o.o.

I'm looking for something beautiful,

was what he said.

Was what he said.

I've seen riches and art and love and lore,

but there's too much around to stop looking for more.

And won't I stop till I'm dead.


	5. What Wasn't

**So, partially because I can't seem to finish the one-shot that I have been REALLY trying to turn out, and partially because Clar just put out such a kick ass Cinderella, for some reason my brain was like- lets go do the exact opposite! I dunnow. So here, not much edited, so excuse any mistakes.**

What Wasn't

She stood at the top of the sweeping staircase, commanding a view of a ballroom which glittered with sultry grandeur, which boasted marble white tiles and rich dark wood for such wide expanse it bordered on obscene, and which was quite completely and utterly empty.

The ghosts of dancers whirled in the flickering shadows of dying candle light, and an idle draft of stale music past pushed at abandoned petals and handkerchiefs. It would be morning any minute now, and the ball had been quite throughly beat out, but her booted footsteps echoed like cannon fire in the room as she braved the first stairs. Her heart beat painfully against her chest and she breathed in the muddled leftovers of perfume and sweat. Surely her heart would have beat right out of her throat if she had walked down these stairs this evening. Every eye in the ballroom would have turned to scrutinize her, the mysterious latecomer. Well, perhaps not every eye, she had seen some of the dresses the real ladies had been wearing on the way to the ball. But then again, she had never seen a fairy dress, it might very well have been made of moon beams and starlight. Better not to wear a dress of such unreliable material, one slip, and then _surely_ every eye on the room would have been on her. No, it would have been a good solid dress. But grand, no doubt. And a soft glow from the fairy light, perhaps. Her footsteps tapped more quietly as she donned what would have been silken shoes. Or perhaps gold? To heck with it, the shoes could be starlight- clear and glittering. Those shoes would surely have caught an eye or two, particularly when she lifted her hem, because she couldn't very well see the stairs beneath all those lace ruffles. And then the candle light would have caught the starry glimmer just right and everyone, even the Prince himself, would notice her and wonder to himself, who was this fairest of fair maidens who walked on stars and arrived late to balls? She would look about at the masses of dancing people, probably terrified and lost, but hiding it beneath a pretty blush. Oh, who was she kidding? She couldn't blush prettily, she would have had to whip out her fan.

She would need a dashing rescuer, of course. A duke- No, the prince! No, no, even her wildest dreams couldn't summon up the attention of the Prince. A duke. Well, a baron at least- but he would be terribly handsome, and instantly smitten with her.

She accepted the arm of her shadowy rescuer and walked further out onto the marble floors, trying to dodge the combination of long-gone party goers and nervous wide spaces. There would be music, and her baron would beg her for a dance. She summoned up an elegant waltz, which might, only a little, have resembled some of the strains from the jig in the kitchen that night. She wasn't particularly familiar with waltz, and had no idea how one danced it. But her ghostly partner was sure and strong, and led her- clop clop- backwards as the- clop clop. She groaned and excused herself from her partner for just a moment. She tore off her boots and tossed them to the side like the heap of potato peels she had made all that night instead. Now where was she? Ah, yes- Her partner was sure and strong and led her backwards through the sweeping strains of waltz, and the starry shoes knew their own way through the dance. She glided dizzily about, watching the walls fly past and imagining that she was staring into the blue eyes of her partner instead. Step-step, spin-spin, jump! She was pretty sure that was how a waltz went, anyway. Not much of a dance if there wasn't at least one good jump. They would have danced around the entire room before the song was over, kicking up the dust of shoes long gone.

The song ended but he couldn't let her go, of course. He would beg her to take some refreshment with him, because this was a _ball _with rules and etiquette and polite society, and one did not dance two dances in a row with the same partner. Or at least, she had heard that somewhere, and they had to wait at least one song out before they could dance again. So they'd wander over to the now empty tables where she had helped to pile all of tiny delicate foods, and she would now help to unload it. She would have him try one of the almond pastries she had so painstakingly filled- No, no, they would- they would just talk. Very pleasant conversation, surely. They would talk and laugh and it would be so very pleasant that they would forget to dance and sit out two whole songs! And that would most certainly be enough time by propriety's standards. So they would dance again, and he'd sweep her about to the sound of definitely not a jig. He would hold her close and whisper in her ear how lovely she was, how wonderful, how he was desperately in love with her almond pastries and with her. He would be so beside himself he would stop, right there in the middle of the dance floor and get down on one knee and ask- no beg her for her hand in marriage as he could not live without her!

Her heart would beat hard and painful. Beat and choke as if pushing honey instead of red blood through her veins. Her stomach in her throat and her voice three spins and a jump back.

She shook her head.

She'd just have to pull him up to his feet, and 'thank you for the kind offer, but no thank you'. He- You- you can't just ask something like that. It's outrageous, rude- down right ridiculous. You can't offer someone all of their hopes and dreams in a single sweep and just assume that they will say yes! Can't just offer to turn their whole world upside-down when they don't hardly know even half of how that world works. People need time. Time to think. Time to prepare for something like that, because you can't just fairy magic your way into a happy ending!

She'd pat him on the shoulder and try to look as sympathizing as possible, then turn on a heel and rush back towards the stairs.

Ballrooms were no place for the likes of her, not unless she had a broom or a tray in hand. And certainly not- her foot hit one cold stair and she stopped.

She sighed and padded back through the empty ballroom. She collected her boots from their lonely pile and shoved them back on calloused feet. Would have been foolish to forget those, particularly with all the cleaning the palace would need in the wake of that ball.

The heavy boot-steps rang as she climbed back up the stairs, and echoed about the walls long after she left.


End file.
